When my husband suffered his first heart attack at age 44, my thought was that he was much too young for something so serious to have happened. With the second one, followed by a quadruple bypass, worry and fear raised their ugly heads.

Over the years, one health crisis after another has been my husband’s constant companions. Consequently, I’ve been interpreter of his every episode or procedure, regaling them in minute details, over and over, to doctors and others needing to hear about them.  Frankly, every time I’ve waited in the “family” waiting room at Emory University Hospital, I’ve felt like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole: frightened, and because I’m his only family — alone.

However, it’s those things I can’t prepare for that frightens me the most. Such as, when my husband, a black man, goes to the store, or to the barber shop. My fear when it seems he has been gone too long simmers much like a pot of slowly boiling water. And, although he arrives back home safely that day, doesn’t mean the fear ends. It’d just ended for that particular day — this crippling fear never ends!

Sometimes you see it coming; other times, not so much! After all, the incident I’d once feared had already occurred when he had been stopped because of what can be described only as “driving while black.” This occurred as he was on his way home from visiting friends.

“Good evening sir. May I ask where are you coming from?” The officer had asked.

Full disclosure: I’m the talker. When my quiet man says something, it’s either important and yes, often quite profound. So when the retired military veteran, who had a few months prior been hired at a prestigious local hospital was asked “had he been drinking,” he answered truthfully.

“I had one beer to be sociable,” he acknowledged. “I don’t really like beer, but that was all they had. I didn’t even finish it.”

The officer then instructed him to park his vehicle where he’d been pulled over. “This is just as a precaution,” the officer insisted. Reluctant to leave his car, he nevertheless complied.

I had once told him that he could only seek justice for any perceived injustices if he were alive to do so.

“Is this Mrs. Gee? My name is Officer Mike Wilson. I don’t want to frighten you, but I just pulled your husband over. He is fine,” he hastened to add. “He admitted that he’d had been drinking. He is not under arrest, this is just for his safety.  However, I will need you to come pick up your car,” he continued, telling me where it was. “Then, you can pick him up from the lobby of the county jail.”

Shaking, I barely remembered calling my sister to come get me. With her sleeping toddler bundled into his car seat, she dropped me off where our car was parked in a nearby school’s parking lot just a few blocks from our home.

Law-abiding folks, neither of us had even been inside of a jail before. That particular incident turned out all right, though it still shook both of us up. Once we got home, I burst into tears.

The possibility that this incident could be repeated, and that it could turn deadly, was my constant worry. Hence, I created another checklist of what to do if or when he is ever again stopped by the police. You know:

“Do what the policeman says. Don’t make any sudden moves. Keep your hands where they can be seen at all times. And answer questions politely. Keeping the above reminders in mind, could save your life.”

Sadly, the recent altercations with police in Baltimore, Cleveland, Ferguson, Minneapolis and others are grim reminders for wives like me. And why I fear for him. Hearing Eric Garner, whom people described as a peaceful man, gasping, “I can’t breathe!” as a result of the chokehold that the police reportedly used, that ultimately resulted in his death, leaves me so terrified that sometimes I can barely breathe.

I get it. Cops are scared, and rightly so. Particularly when they approach cars. Could that fear result in the worst possible scenario imagined: the killing of black boys and black men?  Alas, the answer is yes.

These claims of fear, thus justified as self-defense, too often is inspired by something more insidious — hatred. Much like the turbulent ’60s, where killings and protests ruled the day, our lives are overshadowed by fear and suspicion. I guess it’s true what writer William Faulkner once thought when he wrote “The past is never dead, it’s not even past.”

Question: When did the lives of black males in our society become so insignificant? Not my degrees in psychology and sociology, nor my master’s that examined the human condition, helps me to understand why being stopped because of a broken rear light and reaching for his license and registration, at the policeman’s behest, Philando Castile of Minnesota was shot four times?

All this piques in me a desire to understand, and to explain (if only to myself), how things like this can happen in a so-called civilized society? In the 21st century?

When will it end?

You know, “being black in the wrong place” as Castile’s mother tearfully lamented, upon learning her son had been shot and killed?  Indeed, there are times when even the best of us comes up wanting in our quest for understanding. And. granted it leaves me frustrated.

So, baby, in addition to all the above, keep your insurance and registration handy. Keep your speed under the limit. And please, don’t drink and drive. Yes, black lives matter. All lives matter. Yet, the sad truth — the fear of losing our sons, lovers and husbands is something we black women know — better than any other women, in the world.